


Leather & Silver

by codenamecynic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Collars, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It is a simple thing, in its parts.  A strip of black leather.  A beaten silver buckle.  Three small holes punched through one end.  A small silver ring threaded to the center."</i>
</p><p>Hawke finds Fenris' old slave collar in his things and finds herself incredibly turned on at the idea of having him control her. Fenris is initially angry about finding her with it, but upon an explanation of what she wants and some time to think, he takes her up on her offer</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather & Silver

**Author's Note:**

> This was the very first fic I ever posted to the Dragon Age Kink Meme, so it's kind of funny that it's the last of its brethren to make it onto AO3. There is one or two (probably really terrible) early DA fics lying around elsewhere that will eventually be transferred over, but for now I hope you enjoy.

She and Isabela find it one day, poking around his mansion because the rogue is bored and Hawke is easy to convince to do things that might get her into trouble. It is in one of the back rooms that he never goes into, the dust and cobwebs thick, dark because the windows are yellowing from the outside with dirt from the street and he has done little more to ensure his privacy than draw the thick red velvet of the draperies over them. There are things here, strange things, slaves’ things, like the thin linen shift that Isabela finds in one of the closets and insists upon trying on even though it is far too small for her.

Hawke doesn’t dare, too leery of being caught, of the expression his face would take if he saw them riffling through his things, if he heard the jokes and comments bantered back and forth between them. They laughed about it because it is horrible – neither woman can condone the notion of slavery, had fought against it so many times. Rivainis and Fereldens are meant to be free, fierce creatures, lion and hound, porpoise and falcon.

That doesn’t explain the feeling that curls through her when they find it.

It is a simple thing, in its parts. A strip of black leather. A beaten silver buckle. Three small holes punched through one end. A small silver ring threaded to the center.

But in her hand the parts combine to form a whole, and it is a slave’s collar she holds. It is strangely neutral in her grasp, neither cold nor hot, and she cannot help but hold it as though it is a serpent that will bite her, both appalled and fascinated.

Isabela snatches it from her hand and for a moment she is almost relieved, before the pirate starts to bandy it about. “Sexy little thing, isn’t it?”

“Maybe when it’s not being used to crush someone under the heel of oppression.”

Fenris catches them, and the way he saves his glower for Isabela only makes Hawke feel lighter, and rather than lose this feeling that is so new and fresh between them, she hides the collar inside her robes and forgets about it until later.

The fire in her room burns down low, just like she likes, and the walls are a soft shade of red. It is an easy evening, a quiet one, and she is alone. Fenris is not with her because since Danarius, since his apology, they have taken it slow, neither willing to take the fragile but strengthening bond between them for granted nor do anything to injure its repair. They are almost courting, the traditional kind, for all that sometimes his self-control grows tenuous or she tempts him into putting it aside and they spend the night together, wrapped all around one another like a ribbon tied up in knots around a wrist. He loves her, for all that he won’t say so in so many words, and she would do anything for him, anything at all.

That’s why she hides the collar from him, hides the fact that she finds its leather and silver captivating, hides that the touch of it around her slender throat is electric. She feels wilder with it on, more feral, less like a woman and more like a creature. She wears it sometimes when she is in bed alone, imagining that her hands belong to another as they explore her body, as though she is powerless to resist when thighs are splayed beneath sheets and fingers roam and pinch and probe, plundering sweet wetness until she topples over the cliff into her own personal abyss, pleasured and sated.

She never feels quite so satisfied as when she does it with the collar on. There is something there about surrender that she can’t put a name to exactly, something about freedom in trust that is wholly different than a forced submission – but then there is an idea that is appealing there, too. She has always liked the way hard hands, Fenris’ hands, feel on her skin. Their loving had always been about control; he has known little of tenderness and there is little of him that is gentle, but he tries, for her, and she enjoys it. But she likes it more the times he is rough and demanding, pinning her against the wall or the floor or bending her over any number of objects in his ruined house, and even when the gentleness is there it always descends into the madness that colors everything slick and red. But she wants more than that. She wants possession. 

The idea terrifies her, not because she fears it for herself, but because she cannot bear to see betrayal in his eyes. She doesn’t want to own him, quite the opposite in fact, but even after Danarius there is a veil between them that she only gingerly parts when he wants to speak of it, trying to show him in a myriad of forms, a thousand tiny, little ways, that he is free and whole and she is his, has always been.

And so she keeps this secret from him, keeps it close and dear, until he catches her at it one day.

It is hard to keep a secret from someone she has no defenses against, and when he slips into her room late one night and finds her before her mirror clad only in her smalls and with her robe splayed open, the collar in her fingers, there is little more she can do than stare at his reflection behind her. Stare at him, and then look away, look to anything but him, because she can almost feel that he is confused and anticipates the anger that always follows swiftly afterward, defense against the vulnerability of his incomprehension.

She is not disappointed, and his hand is hard when it grips her arm, turning her around and taking the collar from her grasp. It is a small thing, in its parts. Leather and silver and threat. Her eyes squeeze closed for a moment, bracing, and then she opens them.

“What are you doing with this?” He demands, and hems her against the mirror.

For a moment it occurs to her to lie, but she doesn’t lie to Fenris. Ever. Partially because she can’t and partially because she doesn’t want to. “Isabela and I found it in your house, months ago. I didn’t want her to have it, so I took it.”

It’s an answer, but not the answer he wants. He presses closer, looming as he has a tendency to do, and she shrinks back, palms flat against the glass behind her. “And I say again, Marian, what are you doing with this.” He holds it up in front of her, his collar, her collar, and her eyes are like moths, burning themselves on the fire in his hand.

“I wanted to try it out,” she says, and she cannot believe how strong her voice sounds.

Neither can he. “Is this some kind of game to you? Do you even know what this is?”

“Of course I do.” She comes away from the mirror and wraps her robe around herself, tying the knot in front with finality. The fierce disbelief in his voice pricks at her like the pins and needles of a deadened limb and it she feels judged. It makes her cold, hurts her. “I am not an idiot, Fenris.”

“Then it is a game to you.”

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, slips away from him and crosses to stand before the fire. “Yes, it is. Try not to scream.” He chokes on her sudden flippancy as he has often done, retreating into sullen silence, but he doesn’t leave and that in itself can only be a good thing. “Would it surprise you to know that, sometimes, on occasion, consenting adults like ourselves engage in harmless role play?”

“Role play?” He says it like it’s something horrible he’s stepped in, but she knows him well enough by now to recognize that it is only because he doesn’t know what that means.

“Yes, role play. Sort of like what Isabela writes,” she laughs at that, having to fall back on Isabela’s smut for reference, but she’s grasping at straws in how to explain this to him. “The maiden and the rakish pirate captain, the king and the chambermaid, the templar and the naughty mage, or the magister and the slave. That one’s fairly common, actually.”

“You mean… to pretend?” he hazards, and arches one dark brow at her. He is the wolf of his name in this moment, his head canted faintly down, eyes green and intense behind the faint veil of his pale hair. He looks predatory, hungry, and she wants to be devoured. She could tempt him into it if she wanted to, have him wrapped around her here on the floor before the fire, but she wants this conversation more. Wants him to understand.

“Yes, to pretend.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “For fun. To satisfy desires that can’t be filled safely any other way.”

“For fun. Who would wish to debase themselves in that way, to submit to such a whim. Surely you cannot…” She squeezes her eyes closed, pained by the harsh censure in his voice, and his eyes narrow when she looks at him again. “You are. You do. Marian,” he moves forward, pins her against the side of the mantle, and she forces herself to look at him, to take the punishment for what she is beginning to feel may be well and truly some kind of terrible, prurient desire. He lifts the collar before her face. “I will never put this on again. I will not wear this for you, or for anyone.”

“That’s not really what I had in mind,” she says weakly, and reaches out to take the scrap of leather from his hand.

Realization dawns slowly and when it does she cannot tell what he might be thinking, his expression guarded and unreadable. She laughs, but it is a humorless sound, thick with hurt and the tendrils of shame that both infuriate her and make her want to hide. “I am already yours. If I want to belong to you sometimes, what difference does it make?”

“I have to think about this,” he says finally and moves, no longer staring at the way her back has turned, how she draws in on herself. He pauses before her door and looks at her again, uncertain. “I promised I would never…”

She shakes her head. “It’s alright, Fenris, I understand. It’s okay to go, just… come back at some point, alright?”

He goes, and comes back and roughly kisses her cheek, and goes again, and she puts the collar away deep in a drawer and passes the night alone and sleepless in her bed.

***

He does not know what to do with himself, does not know what to think, and for a while he falls back into old habits. He breaks things, stalks around in the dark, drinks, curses Danarius’ name and wishes for earthquakes to shake the Imperium to the ground. And in the end, because he is weak and spends every waking moment of this new life with her that he has been granted but does not deserve wanting to bury himself in her hair, in her arms, in her scent and beneath her clothes, he ends up before the fire with his hand curled around his cock and images of her flashing before his eyes.

He always thinks of her when his body turns desperate in his attempts to deny himself; the way a single lock of hair falls before her eyes, the lyrium-blue of her gaze, the curve of her lush, expressive mouth, the hourglass shape of her body beneath the robes she wears. She is fierce and ardent, passionate and eager, willing to indulge him in any desire, to yield to any urge.

He should not have been surprised by her confession, and because the idea has been put to him it floats inside his mind with astonishing regularity. He imagines what it would be like to have her kneel at his feet, pictures the stretch of her body in the firelight if he were to tie her to his bed. How would her body respond if he were to bind her eyes and slip the bit of a gag between her teeth? What noises might she make if he were to take a lash to her white skin? 

She is so soft, so sensitive, colors so easily; his marks on her are always so satisfying, so stark and obvious against her pale flesh. Would she respond to pain as she did to pleasure? He knows she likes it, some small part of her does. They never discuss it, but she practically glows beneath his hands when he forgets himself and treats her with less than respect, too hard, too roughly. His hands are that way, ungentle things, too large for the fragile way she feels under him sometimes, but she never complains or asks him to be different than he is.

He reads one of Isabela’s books, one of the many she is always slipping into the shelves, and he searches the pages for the appeal one might find in pretending to be these characters. When he finds the words stirring passions, stoking the fires that simmer within him, he loosens his trousers and sates himself as best he can. When he spills into his hands, he has already decided what he will do.

***

Days pass, long and seemingly endless. She knows better than to go to him before he is ready; that will only lead to a fight, and if there is anything she doesn’t want to fight about, it is this. She’s an idiot; this thing between them is so fragile, so new and undefined. She almost burns the collar, almost incinerates it between her fingers in a fit of power and pique, but she puts it away again, slams it in a drawer and goes to the Hanged Man instead. 

More days pass, more long nights, and she almost asks Varric – or Maker help her, Isabela – for advice, but it’s too personal a thing. If it ever were to show up in print somewhere she will undo them all, unravel them like sweaters. She is fiercely protective of Fenris and will never expose so vulnerable a topic to the scrutiny of the others, no matter how well-meaning.

So she waits and waits, and is rewarded for her patience finally by two lines carefully written on a piece of parchment and tucked into the frame of her mirror.

Come to me tonight. Bring it with you.

She will save this scrap of paper forever, because just the sight of it makes her knees weak and sets her body alight. She takes it to bed with her and lays there until the sun goes down, reading and rereading the bold script in his hand, the letters etched with care. No mistakes – Fenris hates being corrected – no great dearth of words.

Brief. Economic. Him. Him all over.

She tries not to allow herself to be too hopeful. There is still a chance that he’ll throw the collar in the fireplace as she’s seen him do with books and Danarius’ robes and things like wine bottles that do not belong there, but she bathes with extra care anyhow and waits for night to truly fall, stalking back and forth across her room. She waits until it is dark and her early-rising household begins to trickle off to bed, and then she goes to him, crossing the shadowy streets of Hightown on silent feet. She is afraid, but not of the darkness or of the brigands that sometimes make the mistake of haunting here, but of what she’ll find when she opens the door to his stolen mansion, the one that hangs crooked on its hinges.

All is dark when she slips inside, more so than usual. Even the light that usually spills down the stairs from the chamber above where he spends most of his time is absent; he has not bothered to light a fire there. She calls for him, because even now she knows better than to want to try and sneak up on him, and wanders toward the stairs.

An arm wraps itself around her waist and yanks her backward, and her staff falls out of her hand and lands on the floor with a sharp cracking sound that startles her even more than the feeling of a hard warm hand closing over her mouth. For a moment she almost forgets herself, almost lashes out with a spell that will blast her faceless assailant backwards across the room, but she recognizes him like a mabari recognizes the scent of kaddis on his master. He is warm and strong and smells of leather and metal and foreign places, and she relaxes inside herself even as she holds her body rigid in his grasp.

“And so my little bird returns to her cage. Did you not think your master would find you, slave?”

His voice is a purr, all silver and leather and danger, and she thinks for a moment she will die, will be reduced to ashes on the spot because she wants this, wants this so much. Instead she struggles, pitting her lesser strength against the rigid planes of his chest and the corded muscles of the arm that locks her in place, and he crushes her to him. The hand over her mouth forces her head back until it presses against his shoulder and she stares up at the ceiling, craning for a glimpse of him, but his face is nothing but shadow.

“Your defiance does you no credit. If you wish to bruise your wings you may, but I warn you, test my patience and you will discover the limits of my mercy. I will break you, slave, again and again. You will remember to whom you belong.”

She struggles, because she does not want it to be easy. She struggles because he would and because she wants to and because the way his arms trap her against him so effortlessly, holding her still as though it is a simple thing, makes her burn with desire. She itches to shed these robes, to feel his hands on her bare skin, to rub herself against him like a cat, but she is at his leisure.

He waits until she wears herself out, panting against his hand and sagging slightly, until she is disheveled and her robes are rumpled and her pale skin glistens faintly with sweat. He laughs at her and buries his face against her hair, breathing her in and gratified when she flinches. His tongue flickers out to taste her, dragging over the curve of her cheek, and she whimpers. It is a small sound, low in her throat, the first she has made that is not a growl of frustration or grunt of effort. He can feel himself stirring, the tightness of his breeches faintly uncomfortable. She can feel it too, and she goes still, motionless but not quiet pliant.

“Good, little bird. You’re beginning to figure it out. It is hopeless to resist, I will have you however I wish. You are mine, and I will see to it that you do not forget again.”

He forces her to move with him, taking her not up the stairs but down the hall, driving her before him with a hand that curls into her hair at the nape of her neck and another that bends her arm up painful behind her. It is an unfamiliar room, one he has prepared for this and this alone. It is very similar in feel to the rooms in Danarius’ house in Tevinter and it discomfits him, but it also keeps him true to purpose. Tonight this is his room, and she is his captive, his slave to do with as he likes. The power there hovering at his fingertips is maddening, tantalizing and heady.

He pushes her, too hard on purpose, and she trips on the hem of her robe and ends up on the floor. But even falling she is graceful and as she props herself up on her hands and stares up at him in a mixture of appreciation and fear, her beauty lances through him like lightning and he desires her terribly, fighting the primal urge to ruck up her skirts and have her there on the floor. He can make her scream that way, knows all the right ways to touch her, but then the element she desires would be missing. That which is signified by the ring of black leather and bright metal that lays on the floor at her side, fallen from her grip.

He is stripped to the waist and she cannot take her eyes off of him, the way the tawny skin of his chest plays in shadows and light, the hard muscle there. He is all planes and contours and the sinewy, fluid lines of lyrium; he looks like an old god, a proud and feral beast out of myth. He is, she thinks, what the Dread Wolf would be if he took the shape of a man, and the thought is both chilling and oddly compelling. She forgets to resist as he hauls her up from the floor and forces her against the ornately carved bed, putting her back against one of the tall and thick posts that hold up the canopy above. Her hands are stretched up above her and she is bound there with rope twisted about her wrists.

She could burn through the cord in an instant if she wanted to, he knows that. She could set this room aflame and be free of him in half a moment, but they both know she has set magic aside for tonight and so he needs little more than rope and his hands to bend her to his will. He could, did and will use his strength against her, but he intends to punish her for introducing these lascivious ideas to his mind, to torment her with their reality because he has achieved little rest from the desires these thoughts invoke. He wants her to feel helpless, to know that she is at his mercy; he would like it better if he could strip the magic from her entirely, make it more real, more frightening, make it so that she was truly helpless and not simply pretending to be so, but he supposed that was the point of this exercise. Pretending. 

Her hands twist and ball to fists within the ropes, testing the strength of their hold, but he has tied them tightly and even her slender wrists and hands will not be able to slip free. He presses against her, pleased somehow deep down at the way she goes rigid against him, the way she tries to draw back and is left with nowhere else to go. His hands roam her hips, slide up her small waist, and lift to grope at her breasts ungently, enjoying the way her pale flesh rises beneath the neckline of her robes. 

She makes a small, aggravated sound and he laughs and kisses her, ravenous for the taste of her. It is a rough thing and presses her head back against the bedpost; more teeth than tongue, and it is not surprising when she bites him, sharply enough that he tastes the copper flavor of his own blood upon his tongue. She is breathing hard, glaring, and he lifts a hand calmly to wipe the expression off her face, slapping her across the cheek. It snaps her head to one side and quiets her immediately, and he presses ahead, taking advantage of the stunned way she looks at him to grasp at the hem of her robe and twist his hands into it, ripping it apart, the fabric of this old garment parting easily to her waist under his strength. Her legs are long and smooth and pale beneath and he is overcome with the need to lay her bare before him. He sinks his hands into her bodice and tears it in twain, and she is deliciously exposed beneath, naked in her glory.

“Wanton little slut,” he murmured in her ear, making her flinch at the hard word and again when he ripped apart her sleeve, leaving the robe to hang from one shoulder. “Without even the decency to wear smallclothes beneath her little robe. One would think you were missing your master’s touch. No?” he questioned, chuckling darkly when the fingers that quested over the flat plane of her stomach were met a sharp intake of breath. “That’s too bad. Fortunately, it is not up to you to choose; you are mine to do with as I will.” He knows what the power of his voice does to her and he presses close, whispering against her ear. “Tonight I will mark your skin, and I will leave my scent all over you. I will claim you in every way so there is no doubt that you are mine, in your mind or in any other’s.” He rips the robe from her completely and leaves her bare, hands bound above her as though the bedpost is an altar and she the sacrifice laid upon it, a fair princess awaiting a dragon, or a foolish little girl set out to tempt a wolf.

He touches her then and takes his time, exploring this body that is his woman, his property. She is all strong thighs and lush hips and small waist, all curved shoulders and generous breasts. Her skin is soft like silk, like satin, even though she bears scars as he does, even though muscle ripples beneath the pallor of her flesh. Her thighs have parted and he can smell the sweet musky scent of her sex, but he does not touch her there even when she angles her hips forward in blatant temptation. His hands close hard around her breasts instead, molding them in his grip and plucking the rosy peaks of her nipples between his fingers until she groans, pinching them between thumb and forefinger and dragging her up onto the tips of her toes as she whimpers.

“Please,” she manages finally, and he grins his victory at her.

“Please what.”

She is silent and it is all the excuse he needs to turn her around to face the bedpost and present him with the sleekness of her back and her round backside. He bites her there, leaving the imprints of his teeth behind as her hips buck and he holds them fast. She will have marks there too, the impressions of his fingers.

She curses at him and he loosens his belt, drawing it from around his waist. The pressure constricting uncomfortably about his eager cock lessens as his trousers loosen about his hips, and he folds the belt in his hand, careful to keep the metal of its tongue and buckle from touching her flesh. That will break the skin and the spell he has over her along with it. He brands her with it, lightly at first and then harder as her skin pinks in stripes, growing tender along the backs of her thighs and the swell of her buttocks and between her shoulders. He strikes her in an uneven rhythm, enjoying the way she jumps at the touch of the leather, the small moans she tries to stifle at first and then the harsher cries from low in her throat when she can contain them no longer.

“Please,” she begs again, and he stops, a hand to trail down the curve of her spine, feeling the heat he has raised there. 

He curls his hand around the taut curve of her backside, squeezing her flesh in his palm. “Please what.”

She is silent again except for her harsh breaths, and he brings his hand down hard against her rear. Immediately its imprint glows pink on her skin and she makes a strangled noise that almost sounds like a sob. He does it again, marking the other side, and when she is silent again he picks up the belt once more. His little bird is stubborn and he does not go easy on her, because she would not want him to. She has an iron will, but the fortitude of her flesh will give out long before the strength of his arm does, and he must trust that she will call an end to this before the damage he causes is real.

She pleads again eventually, twisting against the ropes that bind her, and he stops, raking the close-cropped edges of his nails along her back.

“Please what, little bird.”

“Please, master. No more.”

His approval rumbles through him and she shivers, throwing her head back and gasping as he rewards her with oil-slicked fingers that quest between her thighs and dip inside of her. She is flooded, soaked and dripping along her thighs and he marvels at it, reveling at the slick feeling of the softest of her flesh, the wet noise of his fingers invading her, twisting, stretching, filling. She whimpers softly as he kicks her ankles apart and slides his fingers to press against the tight pucker hidden between splayed cheeks. He has never taken her here before, does not know if anyone has, but he will tonight. 

He prepares her with patience, slow but thorough. She is impossibly tight and he knows that even with the abundance of oil he uses it will still hurt, but that is good, because she responds well to the pain. He works one finger inside of her, and then another and another, and wraps an arm around her to splay a hand over her belly, delving lower to seek out the little knot of nerves hidden within her swollen lips. She jerks and gasps as he strums his fingers there, and her body struggles against itself, unsure if she wants to press forward or back, her hips working in a sensual roll as she tries to do both.

He holds her there, suspended in her pleasure, until she begins to quake and tighten with the threat of release. Cruelly he stops before she can crest, drawing his hand from her sex and plunging his fingers within her, impaling her on them so deeply she is held against the bedpost. Her muscles clench around them and she shudders, panting and dragging hard on the rope that binds her wrists above her. He waits until she calms, until her short, ragged breaths grow even, and then he begins again, thrusting deep into her and reaching to pinch her swollen little bud between his fingers. She shrieks as again he denies her, and her voice is even more desperate than when she endured the bite of his belt against her. Her cunt will flood for pain, but it is so much easier to torment her with pleasure.

“Please, master, can I come?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

“Please may I come,” she corrects herself, the words coming from between gritted teeth. She is shaking, vibrating, and her skin is slick with musk and oil and sweat. “Master, please, please, may I come for you?”

Those words are almost his undoing as well and he holds her tight until the tension passes, drawing her close and taut with pleasure until he pictures her body as a bowstring, ready to snap. “You may,” he murmurs against her ear and immediately she goes rigid in his arms, her back arching and her head thrown back against his shoulder. She sounds like an animal when she convulses and goes limp afterward, sagging between his body and the bedpost when he draws his hands from her. He holds her up and undoes the knots, letting her trickle out of his grasp slowly to come to her knees on the floor before the bed.

She is trembling and there is not much fight left in her now, hazy in the aftermath, but he isn’t finished with her. He pushes her down to the floor with more force than is necessary, reminding her of their game and his unfulfilled desire, and kneels over her, holding her against the stone with a knee pressed lightly to her back. Her arms he gathers behind her, binding her wrist to elbow, and she doesn’t fight him other than to whimper a little when he pulls on the cord to tighten its last knot. She is slender and limber and he could tie her in more complex ways than this, but there is no need to go so far tonight. This will suffice; she is bound and helpless and his once more.

He hauls her to her knees and allows himself a moment of tenderness as he smoothes her dark hair back from her sweat-dampened brow, tucking it behind her ears and lifting her chin to kiss her soft, lush mouth. She kisses him back this time, hesitant little kisses, and the way they are almost shyly done raises a possessive, protective feeling deep in his chest. He ravishes her mouth, lips giving way to teeth and tongue, and she moans against him, quiet sounds that he takes into himself, absorbing.

He pulls away from her eventually, easing back to appreciate his handiwork; the way her lips are swollen and bruised, the arch of her back against the pull of her arms bound behind her, the faint marks he can already see forming on her hips. It is now that he remembers the collar he instructed her to bring and he fixes it around her throat, tightening it until there is barely a finger’s breadth of slack in the leather. She shudders as his fingers work the clasp, her eyes lidding themselves, and when they open again he can read desire in them plainly. Her ardor has not cooled, still simmering within her flesh like the magic she holds back.

His hands move to toy with her nipples again, dipping his head to taste them, nipping with teeth and laving with tongue until she squirms. He paints his face with an expression something like amusement, reaching between her thighs again as though he is indulging her. She is so much more sensitive now, flinching almost when his fingers push into her and his thumb grinds against her little pearl. Her hips writhe but she has nowhere to go but to throw herself backward on the floor and onto her bound arms, and so she stays there, struggling and shuddering and whimpering until she is at the peak again and again he abandons her. 

She truly does look as though she might weep with the frustration and he gives her little time to dwell on it, standing up to tower over her again and to unfasten his breeches. His cock strains into his hand and he strokes it thoughtfully, watching her. Her pale breasts heave with her heavy breaths, but she straightens up slightly, knowing what is likely to come next. 

“Please your master well, little bird, and I will give you the release you so crave. But be warned,” he reached down to catch her chin, fingers digging into the bones there less than kindly. “If I feel your teeth, you will regret it.”

Marian’s mouth. If he were a man of poetic words he would write many pathetic odes to it, he was sure. Just as well that he was not for there was no language to describe its wet heat, the pressure and suction of her lips and the slide of her tongue. He had thought this a demeaning act in the not so distant past, but she had educated him otherwise. She claimed to enjoy doing this for him and did so as often as he would allow – which was not often lest he become unnaturally fixated on the act and neglect her in other ways – but she had never done so without the benefit of her hands. The awkwardness of it was endearing, helping a little to push back the looming threshold of his own need. He threaded his hands through her hair, guiding her motions gently and then harder until he was thrusting into her mouth. He hit the back of her throat and she gagged, but he held her there until she swallowed convulsively around him and righted herself.

Her blue eyes flickered up to his face, in vengeance he was sure, half-lidded and hazy. Come hither eyes, the kind that would have him embarrassing himself beneath the table at the Hanged Man during their card games or chasing her through the house if they were alone. She moaned around the hard length of him, the pull of her lips against him incredible and maddening, and then he was spilling himself into her with a growl, his hand fisted in her hair.

“I suppose you think you’re terribly clever, don’t you,” he snarls at her, having to dig deep to summon the appropriate heat to color his voice when his knees feel so weak. “Do not even think of stopping until I tell you to. I will not be robbed of your charms twice; you will be mine.”

He is less than gentle with her now, and he thrusts into her mouth until he is hard and ready again. He has never been this way with her before, so uncontrolled and rapacious after his own pleasure, and she seems disoriented by it. They are straying into the unfamiliar, more than just her bound wrists and the stripes he left across her back, and she can either struggle or lose herself in it. He hopes for the latter, unsure even of his own self-control if their game progresses to its next stage. He will hurt her to please her, but there are times he feels little better than a beast, holding her down and ravaging her. Dimly he thinks they ought to have some kind of word, some kind of sign, but when he picks her up off the floor and throws her down on top of the bed it is far too late for such things.

She lands in an awkward position, teetering on her side, and he flips her unceremoniously onto her back. She settles there atop her folded arms, her thighs spread for him. He laves her there with his tongue, tasting the sweet and salt of her wetness, and her soft skin quivers beneath his lips. It does not take very much to tease her to her peak again and he holds her there, trapping her thighs beneath his shoulders when she kicks and squirms and tries to escape. He laughs at her and bites her thigh, leaving red marks and imprints of his teeth behind, and she keens, a thin and pleadingly wordless sound.

“You forget yourself, little bird, you forget your place. Your pleasure is mine to dictate and mine alone. I will grant it to you if I wish, I will deny you if I wish, but never forget that you are at my mercy, to do with as I choose. This sweet little cunt is mine,” he slides his thumb inside her, making her buck and thrash, and works his forefinger into the slick opening at her rear. “This tight little ass is mine. This little traitorous knot of nerves, here,” he licks her there and she stifles a scream, choking it down. “Is mine. Your pretty mouth, your soft breasts, your hips, your thighs, they are all mine.” He brings her crashing over the edge and she writhes like a serpent.

“Thank your master,” he demands, and she does in a babble of words as he works her again, trembling and pleading to another crest, higher than the first. Marian is like the chained lightning she uses in battle, and it is only one of the thousand small things he loves about her body. Once he brings her to a peak she will climb to it again and again, her body’s ability overreaching her mind’s desire. He has never pushed her so far before, but he is selfish in his pleasuring of her, wants her mindless and weak and tamed and helpless, wrapped up in chains of sensation. He never feels more powerful than when she quakes under his hands, when her voice shapes his name and he knows that nothing else exists for her in that moment but him.

He is hot, his trousers sticking to him uncomfortably and he kicks them off as he thrusts and curls his fingers into her; she barely seems to notice, frantic as she is. Her hips thrust against him and soon she will shatter whether he gives her permission to or not. She does when he drives himself into her, buried to the hilt in the slick wetness of her in one fluid, bruising motion, and she arches under him hard enough to lift them both from the bed, her voice raw in a scream that echoes in all of the still corners of the room.

She will be exhausted and sore after this but he does not care, because even so wet her cunt is tight around the throbbing length of him. She clenches, spasms, grips him like a velvet glove and he holds himself above her, hands bracing to either side of her head as his hips pump against hers. Her cheeks are flushed, her skin pink and slick with sweat and the thin trails of tears that lead across her temples and into her damp hair. He licks the salt from the corners of her eyes, his hands fists in the bedcovers as her body winds tight beneath him once more.

“Kiss me, touch me, please,” she begs and he does, wrapping his arms around her and dragging her into his lap as he kneels upright on the bed. Her hips slide down with the slight weight of her and he is buried in her completely; frantically she grinds against him and he holds her just immobile enough that he still has control of her, driving hard upward as he takes her mouth with his, tasting the vestiges of himself on her. Lips, hands, teeth everywhere, and he makes her break for him again; she floods them both and he almost, almost loses himself.

“Mine,” he growls, low and possessive and full of dark promise, and she nods weakly against him where her head has come down on his shoulder. 

“Yours,” she agrees and he laughs and topples her off of him. He will not last much longer; she is too much for him, he wants too much, but he will finish what he’s started. She looks beautiful on her knees with her arms bound behind her, her body slick and gleaming, her hair damp and head thrown back like a captured barbarian queen, an otherworldly creature.

His hands tighten on her hips hard enough to make her flinch and he presses himself against her. The slickness between her thighs clings to him, coats him, and the head of his cock presses to the last place left unplundered. “Has anyone ever taken you here, little bird?” He whispers in her ear and presses harder, feeling her body quaver in his grasp as she begins to give. He is jealous and relieved when her head shakes, and he bands an arm about her to keep her from squirming away as he drives forward. The friction is unbelievable, the dark heat of her body incredible, and the sounds she makes are of pleasure and pain both. He does not reach forward, does not slide his hand down her stomach to the junction of her thighs, not yet, because he wants her to experience every moment of this, wants her to feel everything.

“Good,” he purrs against her hair. “There is no one else for you but me. No other lovers, no pleasant distractions. You belong to me, and you will remember that. You will remember me all across your body, all through this pretty white skin. You will remember that I have been inside you in every way, that it is my name you scream.” His hand fists in her hair, drags her head back; she arches and he slides all the way inside her like a key fit to a lock. She quivers, whimpers, and he holds her there, stretching her deliciously, filling her overfull. “No one can make you feel like I do, my little mage whore. Your magic, your body, your heart, your soul, they are mine to control. You will have no other master save for me.”

She shatters on the sound of his voice alone, and she is so tight around him that he cannot hope to move. When she goes lax again it is a race to the end; one hand slides between her thighs, thrumming against the swollen pearl there and the other roughly paws her breasts, gripping, grinding, using her whole body as leverage as he thrusts into her. It is not gentle and it is not quick either, but he beats her to the end only by a fraction. His vision goes white with the hot pleasure of it and he spills himself inside her with a shout. There is a long moment when he does not know himself, does not know anything, and when he comes back she is still crushed within his arms. She shudders, twitches, helpless and held still, hovering on the edge again because his hand between her thighs has ceased to rub, only presses.

He softens inside her but does not withdraw, pulling her fully upright to lie back against his chest, firmly seated on him as his teeth find her neck and his voice finds her ear.

“Who owns you,” he whispers, and twitches his fingers.

“You do.”

“Say it.”

“Master.”

“Say it.”

“Fenris!” she sobs, screams, and it is both a song and a battle cry. She goes rigid as he pinches the little knot of nerves between her swollen lips between his fingers, and clenches so hard around him that he sees sparks behind his eyes, the hazy fire of her pleasure so intense he can almost feel it bleed through her.

Her breaths are ragged sounds and she winces as he eases from her and lays her down on her side. The collar he removes first, even before he unbinds her arms, because their game is finished now and he wants no confusion. He needs her back now, needs his Marian, and he is both comforted and gratified when he looses the ropes from around her wrists and her arms fold around him. He is the wolf that guards her side, and she is the hawk that leads him, looking ahead when he cannot.

They lie curled together for a long time, on this big bed that is his but not his. His head rests against her breast and she strokes his hair with her arm curled about his shoulders as his hand idly plays over the soft, flat plane of her belly, splayed over her, fingers dark shadows against the pale light of her skin.

***

“And then the Champion of Kirkwall came so hard she died,” she says from nowhere, eventually, and he laughs and buries his face against her.

“Was it so bad?”

“No, it was… amazing. Incredible. Unbelievable, even.” She lifts her head and looks at him, turns her head to kiss his brow. “I love you, Fenris.”

The tenderness that wells up in him is frightening in its power and he holds her close, still unable to shape those words with his voice though Maker knows he does, he loves her, loves her desperately. “I think I may have been wanting to do that for some time,” he says instead, and she laughs.

“You can do that whenever you wish, you only have to say.”

He lifts himself up over her, holds himself on one elbow and looks down into her smiling face. He can feel one corner of his mouth twitching, wanting to curl into a grin. “And if I were to ask you to return the favor?”

Her eyebrow lifts, interested. “What did you have in mind?”

“I have always wondered how you would look as a pirate.”

It is hard not to smile as she looks at him, her blue eyes considering, because he knows she will not laugh, and if she does it will not be at him. She topples him over onto his back with her slight body and a kiss, and presses her lips to the tip of his nose. “Then avast ye, matey, prepare to be boarded.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the DA Kink Meme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/4251.html?thread=11173531#t11173531


End file.
